Just A Tiny Spark
by Jane Krahe
Summary: A/U Meggie Folchart is the daughter of an abusive polygamist, who can read the future. Running from an arranged marriage, she stumbles into a carnival, where she meets others with powers, including Dustfinger, whose past may be as dark as her own...
1. Let the Flames Begin

**A/N: **Certain aspects of certain religions are portrayed here in a manner with which I may not agree. I am not bad-mouthing anyone's religion, nor are any of the opinions here necessarily my own. They are all merely plot devices, so please, no flames.

Chapter 1: Let The Flames Begin

It was cold and raining and the streets were choked with mud the night Meggie Folchart stumbled half-dead into Joseph's tent. Joseph had been reviewing the accounts for the month, trying to budget enough money to feed everyone in the carnival while still having enough left over for gas and supplies. The new guy helped, his incredible fire-juggling act bringing in the crowds, but money was still tight. He heard a girl gasping, and looked up from his work.

A pretty blonde of no more than sixteen was leaning against the door frame of his tent. Her clothes were ripped and wet, her hair tangled and dirty, and her feet were bleeding and bare. Joseph stood quickly, his papers scattering across the floor. "Dear God!" He rushed over to her, catching the girl as she collapsed. "What happened to you, child?" he asked, his Irish accent lilting.

Tears streaked the dirt covering the girl's face. She looked up at him through cornflower-blue eyes. "Hide me," she said. "Please don't let them... please."

"Hide you from what, child? From who?"

"My father. Don't let him find me!"

*************

It had been a stroke of luck, finding the carnival. When Meggie ran from her father's house, she'd had no idea where she was going, no destination in mind. All she knew was that she had to get away, as fast as her bare feet could go.

The carnival had been there, rising up in brightly colored plumes, in an abandoned field off the highway. She'd seen the banners and the lights, and she'd began to run, as if the place was calling her name. Maybe there would be more people like her there.

Maybe they would save her.

Joseph had asked her no more questions than those first two. He'd fed Meggie, let her take a bath, called an older woman to tend to her bruised, bloody feet, then had set her down in front of a fire and said, "So, child... what is it you can do?"

She knew instantly that this was the place for her, that he was not talking about cooking or needlepoint. He meant what could _she_ do that no one else could, what could _she _do that was different... _special._ "I can read people's futures," she said. "By touching them."

"A useful talent." His grey eyes narrowed as he studied her. After a few moments he continued, "You'll need a name."

"Meggie."

"Meggie what?"

Meggie hesitated. She knew her father would send the police after her; they were all like him, everyone in the county. So _Folchart_ was out of the question. She cast about for a name, knowing that the longer it took, the more suspicious she would seem. Finally, she spouted the first thing that came to mind. "Silvertongue! Meggie Silvertongue." The name wasn't known to her, but it had a familiar feeling, and she thought maybe she'd read it in a book once. Probably one of the contraband tomes she bought from the old man at Fenoglio's Bookshop.

Joseph smiled, his sharp teeth glinting in the firelight. Strangely, it didn't scare her. It made her feel... if not safe, then pacified at least for the moment. Like when the pain in an infected tooth subsides. You know it will be back, because that is the way of things, but the few moments where it lets you rest are somehow more sweet and glorious because of the pain you have known. Meggie had never felt anything quite like what she felt then, sitting in the firelight with a wolfish Irishman. Something fluttered in her chest, a nervous butterfly, and she thought maybe, _maybe_, this thing was _hope_.

"Is this the life you want, Meggie?" he asked her. "We never stay in one place for more than a week. The tents and trailers leak. Half of us are liars; the other half are thieves. We are gypsies and nomads, and there will never be a place to call home. Did this life call you, Meggie?"

Meggie took a deep breath. Her body shook, but her voice was steady as she replied, "Mr. Joseph, nothing, and I mean _nothing_, can be as bad as what I came from."

"Oh, it can, child," he said quietly, his eyes on the fire. "It can. All we can hope is that you won't find that badness here."

Meggie squared her shoulders. Her mind was set. "Then I'd like to stay."

*************

"We only have one more space available," Joseph said, leading Meggie through the carnival. "It's with the new guy, a fire-juggler. He showed up about seven months ago. Name of Dustfinger."

"Just... Dustfinger?" Meggie clutched her borrowed coat closer to her, dodging the puddles of thick mud, trying to keep up with Joseph's long strides.

"Aye. One name, no story. Even more mysterious than you, lass." He turned back and gave her smiled. Meggie tried to smile back, but fatigue was setting in. Joseph stopped at on old camper, it's white paint yellowed with age. He rapped softly on the door.

Meggie heard some grumbling from inside. The door opened to reveal a shirtless man, slim and pale, with shaggy ginger waves and scars on his face. "What is it, Joseph?" The man had an accent. It sounded almost English, but there was something off about it.

"We've a new recruit," Joseph said. "Meggie Silvertongue."

"And?" Meggie got the impression that this _Dustfinger_ was a bit of a grouch.

"And you've the last bed in the carnival."

Dustfinger sighed. He cast sharp, dark blue eyes at Meggie, who flinched under his intense gaze. "Bit young, isn't she?"

"Bit of an odd name, _Dustfinger_, isn't it?" Joseph's voice was pointed, amused.

Dustfinger's eyes held Meggie's, and she felt as if he were sizing her up, and finding her sorely lacking. "Can you cook?" he asked after a moment. "Clean? Stay out of trouble?"

Meggie nodded, her voice failing her under the weight of those abyssal eyes.

"Allergic to cats?"

Meggie shook her head. "You... have a cat?" Her voice shook, the cold and the events of the night catching up to her.

Dustfinger smiled, and his sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight. "Not exactly." A thin streak of brown fur darted up his side, settling on his shoulder. It was like a ferret, but not quite, and Meggie could swear she saw tiny little horns atop it's sleek head. "His name's Gwin."

"A ferret?" Meggie asked.

Gwin hissed at her and darted back inside. Meggie took a step back in fear, but Dustfinger just laughed. His laugh was odd, not friendly, but not quite mean, either. As if he couldn't choose which side he was on. "He's a marten... of sorts." Dustfinger sobered quickly, looking back over at Joseph. "You're sure?"

Joseph nodded once, hands clasped in front of him. He might have been greeting a count, he seemed so noble.

Dustfinger sighed. Taking a step back, he opened the door fully. "Well, come in, then."


	2. A Dark, Demanding Child

**A/N:** Hey guys, thanks for the reviews. I was really worried about the premise of this story, and whether anyone would be even remotely interested, but the idea just wouldn't leave me alone. I had to get it out there. My muse is a diva little bitch sometimes, but I love him ; P

Chapter 2: A Dark, Demanding Child

Meggie was doing dishes when she heard it. A faint whisper, brushing past her, ruffling her hair and making gooseflesh ripple across her back and shoulders. She'd turned and followed it out of the kitchen, then the house, and through the yard, the whispers calling to her, telling her there was something important she needed to know. The sun was setting over the hills, low red and purple light painting the green acres of her father's land. In the east, the sky was beginning to turn a deep, velvety blue, almost black, and it would have been beautiful if she'd stopped to look.

But the voices were persistent, and she recognized them now as the voices of Fate, the whispers she heard when she held someone's hand and saw their future. They were demanding and petulant, like children. They urged her on in dead languages, and she followed their pull as if in a trance.

Her feet led her to the barn, where her father, Mortimer Folchart, was speaking with some of the local police. Mortimer controlled everything in town, the cops, the schools, the City Council. His family went back nearly two hundred years and he had his fingers, and his twisted faith, in everything. "He's causing trouble," Mo was saying as Meggie drew close. She hid to the side of the barn door and waited, knowing she'd gat beaten if she interrupted anything important. She was still nursing the wounds from her last punishment. "The Winchester boy. He's handsome, and the girls are starting to notice. He flirts with them, right in full view of everyone. We can't have him turning the minds of our young women to sin."

"What do you need, Mo?" the Sheriff, Zachariah Smithson, asked. He was an older man, with grey, balding hair, and a beer gut.

"Run him out. He's seventeen now; he can find his fortune elsewhere."

Zachariah nodded. "Have you thought more about my proposal?"

It was Mo's turn to nod. "Yes, and I'm starting to think it's a good idea. I'd hate to lose her - she's an angel in the kitchen - but she's growing up, and she'll need a firm hand. Got a bit of her grandfather's stubbornness."

Zachariah smiled. "I look forward to... reigning her in." He turned to leave. Meggie gasped and ducked behind a bale of hale.

"Oh, Zachariah?"

The sheriff turned. "Yep?"

"See that the Winchester boy takes his brother with him. He's what, thirteen? What's his name... Shawn?"

"Sam, I believe."

"That's right, Sam. He'll be awful pretty in a year or so... just like that Dean. Send them both away."

"Yessir." The sheriff tipped his hat and left.

Meggie waited for about thirty seconds, then came out from the behind the bale of hay. She walked into the barn as if she'd just arrived. "Meggie?" her father asked. "What are you doing out here? Finished with the dishes already?"

"No, I just..." the voices wanted her to read her father's future, but to do that, she'd have to touch him. The thought made her skin crawl.

"Just what, Meggie?" His voice was taking on that dangerous, honey-drenched tone it got when he was angry.

"Nothing, I just..." Steeling herself, she walked over to her father and wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

The effect was instant. Meggie was thrust into a vision. It was blurry, and the colors all ran together, like a watercolor left in the rain. She saw herself and the sheriff, standing in her father's church. At the altar. Meggie was wearing white, and the sheriff was in his dress uniform. Her father... her father was presiding over their wedding. Meggie could feel it as Zachariah took her hands in his. She shook in his clammy grasp as he pressed his lips to hers. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the scene shifted. Zachariah's face was above hers, and his arms were pinning her down...

"No!" Meggie screamed, wrenching herself from her father's grasp.

Mo looked stunned. "Meggie, what's the matter with you?"

He was marrying her off. He was marrying her off to that disgusting sheriff. That's what they'd been talking about. He was selling her like a pig at market.

Her father reached out to her.

Meggie stared at her father's hand for a moment, the hand that had beaten her till she cried, then held her when she did. The hand that controlled the entire town, and the lives of everyone in it. She turned the other way and she ran.

And she didn't stop.

*************

Dustfinger watched as the girl carefully sipped the hot tea he'd put in front of her. She was a dirty scrap of a thing; her hair was long and ratty, and might have been blond in the right light. She was sickly pale, her eyes hollowed, and there was a thinness to her that spoke less of fashion and dieting, and more of starvation and abuse. Her collarbones jutted out, and her wrists were bony and awkward. She looked absolutely pitiful, and Dustfinger had the momentary thought of drowning her like you would a runt pig.

_Now, 'at's an awful thought, Dusty_, said a voice in his head that sounded a great deal like his dead mother. _Look at the lass, she's a right sight, ain't she? You should be lookin' after 'er, not dreamin' of stickin' 'er head in a barrel of wash-water. God says the meek shall inherit, idn't that right?_ He rolled his eyes. He could see her in his mind's eye, plump and grey-haired, standing over the stove waving a wooden spoon at him. And nothing at the moment seemed meeker than this girl.

Dustfinger sighed. "That table you're sitting at is also your bed." Meggie looked up at him, and he was struck for a moment by how utterly _old_ her eyes seemed. The color itself was bright, but there was a dullness to them, as if she'd seen more horror than any child should have to endure. He shook himself, then continued, "You let the table down, and slide the seats together."

Meggie nodded. "Do you have any pajamas I can wear?"

Dustfinger rolled his eyes. "I suppose." He moved off to the left, to where the door to his bedroom sat, just to the left of the front door. He rummaged around and found an old concert t-shirt (it wasn't as if the Pistols would ever get back together) and a pair of gym shorts from some high school he never went to. He came back and tossed them onto the table. He had a feeling this girl was going to be trouble, and he had half a mind to storm back to Joseph and demand he put the girl somewhere else. Dustfinger knew, however, that his was probably the safest cabin in the carnival. Joseph tried to keep out the more unsavory characters, but there was always a good handful who slipped through the cracks.

Dustfinger noticed Meggie staring at the Sex Pistols logo on the shirt he'd given her. "What does this mean?" she asked finally, turning to stare up at him.

"It's a band," he said, frowning. "You telling me you never heard of the Sex Pistols?"

"A band?"

Dustfinger scoffed, wondering if this girl was messing with him. "A band, you know... music. You never listened to the radio?"

The girl lowered her eyes, then said, her voice quiet, "Listening to the radio is a sin."

Dustfinger nodded to himself. So that's what it was. She came from a heavy religious background, something puritanical and repressive. And probably abusive. "Well," he said after a moment, "I'll leave you to it, then."

Dustfinger retreated to his room. He pulled off his leather pants, replacing them with an old, worn pair of grey sweats. He slid into bed, Gwin curling himself around Dustfinger's shoulders. Dustfinger lay in the dark, listening to the girl get ready for bed. He could hear it as her jeans were unzipped, her shirt dropped on the floor, the new clothes donned. He heard her fumble for a moment with the table - but only a moment. She easily slid it into place and got into bed. Dustfinger was mildly impressed. He could barely do it himself. But then, following orders was most likely a part of her... upbringing.

Dustfinger slid into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of fire and wolves, and a church bell ringing. He awoke to the sound of the girl crying in the next room. He felt a small swell of sympathy for her, and whatever had driven her to this carnival of outcasts. He entertained the thought of going to her, stroking her hair and telling her everything would be alright.

He stayed in bed. Dustfinger was many things, but a liar he wasn't.


	3. Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

**A/N:** Hey, thanks for being patient. Some craziness happened recently that kept me away from my computer, but I've managed to get this chapter out. And sorry it's short. I wanted to get one out so you would know I hadn't abandoned the story. It was banged out kinda fast, so if I made any typos, feel free to point them out so I can correct them. I'd meant to say this in the first chapter, but I forgot, so: The title of the story and the first chapter is from the Paramore song Let The Flames Begin. The title of the second chapter is from the Robert Downey, Jr. song Hannah (I highly reccomend his music, he's the best), and the title of this chapter is, obviously, from the Cher song of the same name.

Oh, and I wanted to clarify something. The religion that Meggie was raised in is not a main-stream religion. I didn't want to come right out and say it, but I based it largely on the FLDS (if you don't know what that is, Google it). It's not exclusively FLDS, though, I brought in elements of others as well. But I want you all to know, Meggie was raised in a cult. Her father, and the town she's from, are not meant to portray any real thing. I made it up using research I did on fundamentalist cults. She's from a _cult_, kiddies, so please, no flames about how I'm bashing people's religions. These aren't even necessarily my views, they are all for story purposes only, okay?

Chapter 3: Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

Meggie was awoken the next morning by a light hand on her shoulder. Her confused, sleeping mind thought it was her brother Tobias, just three months older than her, the son of her father and his third wife, Mina. Meggie's own mother, Resa, was dead, lost to the bout of flu that swept the town when Meggie was just a toddler. Mina, being her mother's younger sister, had raised Meggie as her own, and Meggie and Tobias had become very close. Or, as close as their father would let them become. Girls weren't allowed to be too friendly with boys, even the ones in their own family. It wasn't all that uncommon for a young woman to be married off to her own uncle or cousin. Just about everyone in the town was related in one way or another.

But when Meggie opened her eyes, expecting Tobias's laughing green gaze and dark, messy hair, she instead let out a gasp. A woman was sitting next to her on the cot she slept on. She remembered then where she was, what had happened. The woman smiled, and Meggie took a deep breath, sitting up.

"Good morning, child," the woman said, her voice warm. "My name is Angela; I'm Joseph's wife."

"Oh, hello," Meggie said quietly, wishing suddenly that her hair was brushed.

"Joseph asked me to take you shopping for some clothes and things and show you around the carnival."

"No!" Meggie jumped off the bed. "I can't go into town, he'll find me!" She began pacing, unable to think, unable to _breathe _past the panic welling up in her.

"Meggie, Meggie, it's alright!" Angela gripped Meggie by the wrists, forcing the girl to look at her. Angela's eyes were like warm, dark honey, and despite herself, Meggie began to calm. "Darling, it's alright," Angela continued. "We're not even in the same state anymore."

"Wait... what?" Meggie's mind was having a hard time catching up.

"Sweetheart, we packed up and left the moment you settled in with Dustfinger. We're not in Utah anymore."

"Oh... then, where are we?"

"We're in Nevada. Just outside of Las Vegas, in fact."

"Outside of where?"

Angela hesitated, and when she smiled again, there was a sadness behind it. "Las Vegas is... you know what? It's probably a little much for you right now. We're staying in a little town called Coyote Falls. We'll shop there." Angela pronounced the "e" in "coyote", unlike the people in Meggie's town. Meggie thought it sounded better that way.

*************

It only took about two hours for Meggie and Angela to buy everything she needed. Meggie felt overwhelmed walking into the first clothing store. She'd never seen such short skirts or low-cut tops before. Angela steered her away from those, however, and over to a section with long, flowing skirts in colorful patterns. "If you're going to be our resident palm-reader," she said with a smile, "you should look the part." She bought the girl a dozen of the skirts in a rainbow of colors, than took her to the underwear section. Meggie had never worn a bra before. She barely knew what one was. But the saleswoman was very nice and helped her choose some that weren't too uncomfortable.

But when it came to the shirts Angela picked out, Meggie was hesitant. Angela called them "spaghetti-strap tops", but Meggie thought they looked like just more underwear. Angela said she was slim, and should show off her shoulders. Meggie finally agree on the condition that she also have shawls or scarves to wear if she felt too exposed. Angela said it would just add to her "gypsy mystique", and bought her a set of ten gorgeous silk scarves. The finished off the day with several pairs of strappy sandals and some jewelry, which Meggie had never worn before. There were bracelets and anklets, but when Angela suggested she get her ears pierced, Meggie turned pale. The woman then hastily said, "Never mind, the bangles are enough," and the two checked out and headed back to the carnival.

Angela led Meggie around, telling her all about the people and attractions the carnival housed. There was a petite blonde named Claire who swallowed swords, slept on nails, and walked on beds of broken glass. There was the strong-woman, Nikki, and her husband D.L., an escape artist. A man with a round, smiling face named Matt guessed people's ages and weights and dress-sizes. There were two men, both with dark hair and beautiful black eyes, who ran a magic show. Peter, his silky hair hanging in his face, did tricks and illusions. Gabriel, his eyes intense, his smile unsettling, was a hypnotist. The sign for their show read "Brothers of Magic," but when Meggie asked if they were twins, because they looked to be the same age, Angela laughed and said, "They aren't really brothers. But no one's going to come see 'The Two Magicians Who Also Happen To Be Gay Lovers', are they? The sign may say 'Brothers', but those boys are in love."

Meggie wasn't sure what to say to that. Unlike most of the other kids in her town, she knew what homosexuality was. She knew because she'd been there when her father had caught two of his younger wives in bed together doing, in his words, "What only a man and his wife should do." She'd never seen the two women again, but Meggie was curious and did some research over at Fenoglio's bookshop. She'd read that being homosexual, or "gay", was no different than being born with red hair. It was just a part of you. Of course she never shared this view with other members of her family, as her father and other church members were adamant that it was a mortal sin, worthy of the fires of hell. Meggie wasn't even sure she believed in hell.

In fact, when Meggie stopped to think about it, she wasn't sure she believed in _anything_ anymore. The picture her father painted of God just didn't gel with the idea of God as a parent. Why would a parent accept so few of his children? Meggie felt suddenly like a curtain was being drawn open, and she was seeing things for the first time.

For instance, why would listening to music be sin? Does it hurt anyone? Why wasn't she allowed to go swimming with her own brothers? Why were boys sent away once they were teenagers, yet the girls stayed behind? Meggie felt her father's web of control unwinding from around her, and the sudden freedom made her head spin. She sat down on a bench set out for carnival visitors, only dimly hearing Angela calling her name.

The more she thought about it, the less sense it made. Why would a God who created things of such breath-taking beauty, like the sun setting all red and indigo and violet over the hills, or a baby laughing, or a wolf howling in the night, also punish most of the population? How could God possibly be at once both beautiful and cruel?

Maybe he wasn't. Maybe everything her father had ever said was a lie.

It was all too much to take in at once. Meggie shook herself, finally seeing Angela kneeling in front of her, looking concerned. "I'm fine," Meggie said, staving off the woman's questions. "I was just... thinking."


	4. A Bastard With A Problem

**A/N: **Alright, guys, sorry for the wait. We've been in the middle of moving, then my computer pulled the equivalent of a "red-ring" - it's just been real crazy. But as for the story - I wasn't really happy with the last chapter. It was fired off really fast, and while it hit the points I wanted to hit, it didn't quite get the feeling I wanted. So, I spent more time on this one. I hope it's a lot better. I'm certainly way more happy with it. So, yeah, thanks for reading, and listening to me bitch. :)

**Oh, and P.S. : **The title comes, again, from the song "Hannah" by Robert Downey, Jr. I can't help it, it's one of my favorite! I promise, it's the last one!

Chapter 4: A Bastard with a Problem

Dustfinger sat at the small table in his trailer, sketching out an idea for a new fire trick. He wanted to make the fire turn blue and undulate like ocean waves. The fire itself was being stubborn, but Dustfinger had a wicked tongue, and was positive he could persuade the flames to cooperate. He was more concerned with what the finished product would look like. He couldn't work on a stage - the curtains and wood was too much temptation for even the tamest of fires. He had to work on packed dirt, in the midst of the crowd. Unfortunately, fire got nervous when too many crowded close. So how to make the fire spread like water without it nipping at the feet of the awestruck masses?

Dustfinger was wrestling with this when the door to his trailer banged open. He was momentarily stunned, and turned to yell at the intruder. The young blonde in the doorway had a distant look in her eyes; her arms were laden with shopping bags, and new clothes hung on her bony frame. They seemed too big, but most things seemed too big for her. Dustfinger bit back his harsh words. This little girl, this Meggie, seemed like the type to burst into tears at the first shot of venom. Standing there in the doorway, framed by harsh desert light, she seemed made of glazed porcelain, beautiful and breakable. Dustfinger shook such thoughts from his head; they did him no good.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

Meggie's blue eyes looked at him, but he could tell she wasn't really _seeing _him. "Did he lie to me?" she asked.

"Um... what?"

Meggie set the bags down and moved forward. "Did my father lie to me?"

Dustfinger laughed. "Most definitely." He didn't know what lies her father had told, but he was certain she'd been lied to. All parents lie, and for every reason in the world.

She sat down at the table across from him, looking stricken. "But... why?"

Dustfinger shrugged. "To protect you; to control you. Because he loved you; because he didn't love you. There are as many reasons to lie as there are lies themselves."

Meggie absorbed this, but remained silent. After a few moments, Dustfinger went back to his work. But he couldn't help glancing up at the girl every few minutes as she contemplated the worn, speckled table-top. She set his nerves on edge, and he couldn't pinpoint exactly _why_. Finally, he sighed, setting his pencil on the table. "So, you met Angela," he said, mostly to break the strange, thick silence.

Meggie jumped slightly. Her eyes found his more slowly than he would have liked. "Yes," she replied. "She's... nice."

"Yeah, she is." Dustfinger leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "Listen kid," he began, "whatever your old life was, it's catching up to you. I can see it; it's something you see a lot around here. The walls built up by your family or father or husband or _whoever _are crumbling. The rug has been pulled from under you, and everything you've ever known is gone. You're trying to make sense of everything that's ever happened, trying to reconcile your old life with what you're seeing now. So, here's my advice for you: don't try."

Meggie looked up at him in surprise.

Dustfinger nodded. "You'll kill yourself trying to reason it out, give yourself an aneurysm trying to make the pieces fit. What you have to realize is that they _don't_ fit. Whatever has happened to you in the past is never going to makes sense to you. It's never going to be okay. But the thing is, it doesn't _have _to be. You don't have to understand it; all you have to do, all you _can_ do is accept it. Accept it and get on. Get on with your life. Don't let the bastards in your past control who you are here. Because this place is for fresh starts, love, and you're a fool if you don't take advantage of it." Dustfinger wasn't sure what had made him say that; it was the same advice given to him years ago by a drunken old monk in an Italian village. Meggie just... she looked like she needed to hear it.

Dustfinger stood, planning on practicing the blue flames. As he turned away, he heard a small voice say, "Thanks." Dustfinger just smiled and left.

Mortimer Folchart paced the floor of his best friend's office. "I don't know, Zach, I just don't - "

"Hey, we'll find her." Zach's voice was calm, soothing. "I've got every cop from here to Timbuktu looking for her. I'm sure she's fine."

"I just don't understand what happened." Mo ran his hands over his face and through his hair. "She came into the barn, she gave me this big hug... then she just turned and... and _ran._ I mean, no warning, no nothing. She's never even _tried_ to run away before."

"Mo," Zach began, voice placating, "she'll be fine. Who knows? Maybe one of those Winchester boys got to her. Maybe something spooked her. I know she spends a great deal of time with that Fenoglio at his bookshop. Maybe something there's been putting ideas into her head."

Mo paused in his pacing, turning to his friend. "You know, I never thought of that. We should go talk to him."

Zachariah nodded. "C'mon man, where's she gonna go? I mean, she'll all alone out there."

Fenoglio hummed to himself as he placed books on the shelves. His store was empty. It was near closing, but then his store was usually empty. The town he'd set up shop in was rather... restricted. He hadn't realized quite _how_ restricted until a few weeks after opening.

A man had come in, dragging a girl of about sixteen behind him. He'd slammed a book onto Fenoglio's counter, behind which Fenoglio was sat, reading a catalog. Fenoglio had jumped at the sound, and peered up at the man in confusion. "Is - is something the matter?" he asked.

"Yes, something is very much 'the matter'," the man had raged. "You're selling filth to our children!"

Fenoglio's confusion had increased, for the book the man had set before him was Peter Pan. "Forgive me, but... I don't understand."

"This book is filth!" the man insisted. "Boys coming into girl's rooms in the middle of the night, half-naked fairies, grown men living together without a single woman in sight - it's the work of the devil!"

Fenoglio had been rendered speechless. He'd heard some silly complaints about books before, but this was just insane. The man had snarled at him, "Clean the sin from your shop, or you may find yourself out of business!", and dragged the girl back outside.

The next day, Fenoglio had been treated to a visit by the town sheriff, Zachariah Smithson, and the leader of the local church, Mortimer Folchart. Folchart was the most impressive, handsome, and frightening man Fenoglio had ever met, and it was obvious that, though he held no political power, he was the real leader of this small town. Zachariah stood behind him the entire time, silent, his smile like that of a hungry shark. Folchart had told him, with a smile and blessing, that if he stocked anything the local church considered "sinful", that he would be unequivocally thrown out of town. The sheriff's presence that day told Fenoglio that he would find no help of the lawful kind should such a thing happen.

Fenoglio had wanted to leave, but the subversive in him refused. He'd spent this youth protesting war, racism, sexism, and homophobia. And though he was now an old man, he wasn't about to start succumbing to censorship, not completely anyway.

He felt out the locals, and when he met one he thought would understand, he gave them a password, and allowed them to see the back room. And while he stocked the main floor of his shop with bibles and other religious tracts, he kept the backroom full of fairies and magic, and all manner of poetry. Everything the fathers of the town hated was laid out for their wives and children.

In his own way, Fenoglio hoped that these books, these characters, might save someone. He hoped that Tom and Huck, and Frodo, and Harry Potter, and Lyra Belaqua Silvertongue, would encourage these children to seek out their own fortunes; to break the chains their fathers placed round their ankles.

And so Fenoglio ran his bookshop, ushering in a few at a time, hoping to show them the world.

His musings were interrupted by the bell hanging above his door. Fenoglio looked up, smiling, but frowned when he saw Mortimer Folchart, followed closely by his lapdog of a sheriff. "Mr. Fenoglio," Folchart said, his voice smooth and deadly as poisoned silk. "How are you today?"

"Oh, um... fine, I suppose." Fenoglio fumbled with his catalog, finally putting it down because his hands were shaking. Though Zachariah carried his police-issue Beretta on his hip, his hand resting on it like a favorite pet, and Folchart was unarmed, it was Mortimer who scared Fenoglio the most. Everything about him oozed a sweet venom, and it was obvious that he held the entire town in a web of charm and fear.

Mortimer nodded. "That's good. I was wondering, do you have any reading materials that are... off the shelves, so to speak?"

Fenoglio tried to remain calm. "Um... what do you mean.?"

Mortimer shrugged. "Maybe something more like what you used to sell here. More specifically, have you sold any to my daughter?"

Fenoglio laughed dryly. "Your daughter? You'll have to be more specific than that. You've as many daughters as you have wives. Not sure how you tell them apart, actually. Heh. Not sure you even try."

Fenoglio saw the sheriff moving from the corner of his eye, but his reflexes weren't what they once where. So when the blade of the sheriff's small pocket knife came down hard on the back of the old man's hand, slicing between his tendons, all the way through to the desk, he could do nothing but scream and curse. "Ooh, you... you sadists! You sick, religious zealots!" He wrenched the knife from the back of his hand, and wrapped his handkerchief around the wound. Thick red blood dripped down onto his catalog, and the copper smell invaded his nose, making his stomach turn.

"Now, now, now," cooed Mortimer, leaning forward. "Is that anyway to speak to your fellow man?"

"You're not a man," Fenoglio hissed through gritted teeth. "You're a monster."

Mortimer nodded. "Perhaps. But this monster is missing his daughter. And if you know anything about it... you will tell me. Now."

Fenoglio gave a hitching laugh. "You... you've lost one of your precious breeding mares, eh? Ha ha ha... can't even watch your own... own stable."

"Her name is Meggie," Zachariah said. "Do you know her?"

"'Course I know her. Pretty little slip of a thing, blonde, smart as a whip. Too smart. You'll never find her." Fenoglio laughed, and continued laughing as Mortimer nodded to Zachariah, and the sheriff raised his pistol to the old man's temple.

Fenoglio took a deep breath. "Oh, Mr. Folchart," he said, grinning. "The wrath of Heaven shall be upon you for all the sins you've committed. I'll see you in Hell."

Mortimer smiled. "Perhaps." He nodded to Zachariah once more.

The shot rang through the empty store, the books on the shelves standing in mournful silence for the loss of their warden.


	5. Don't Need No Road

**A/N:** So, we're officially moved in, and our internet is up, and quite soon I will have a brand-spankin' new computer, which I am very excited about. I've used my time away from the interwebz to write, and I'm well into the sixth chapter, with no signs of slowing down (knock on wood), so yay for me. I just have to make sure to keep up the non-procrastination. :) So, that's it. Oh, and the title for this chapter is from the Paramore song "Misguided Ghosts". Enjoy.

Chapter 5: Don't Need No Road

Meggie stared up at the sign. A purple hand, held palm up, with an eye in the center, was painted on a wooden sign, which hung on a bright purple tent. "It's all yours, sweetie," Angela said, giving Meggie's shoulders a squeeze.

"It's pretty, but, um... what does it mean?"

Angela laughed. "That's the universal sign for 'palm-reader'. You'll use your abilities to tell people their future, starting today." Angela turned Meggie to face her. "Nervous?"

Meggie nodded. "I spent most of my life trying _not_ to do it."

"I know." Angela's voice was warm, understanding. "We've all been through it, honey. It's why we're all here. We're family. Want some advice?"

Meggie nodded again.

"Kay." Angela draped an arm over Meggie's shoulders, pulling her close. Angela smelled to Meggie of amber and vanilla. It reminded Meggie of Mina, her brother's mother. She missed them then, more than she thought she would. "Be nice, but not _too_ nice," Angela was saying. Meggie shook away thoughts of family and tuned in. "Especially with the guys. Most are just here for a laugh, but some come hoping to get a pretty gypsy girl's 'feather' in their cap. Don't let them think you like them, or are attracted to them. _Don't_ fall for their charms."

Meggie laughed. "Not a problem." She'd never been interested in boys in her life. And from the way her father's wives had acted, she hoped she never was.

"Also, when you tell someone their future... sugar-coat it a little. Lie outright if you have to."

Meggie frowned. "Why?"

"Sweetheart, people don't go to fortune tellers for the truth," Angela said. "They go to hear good news. So give them their future, but make sure it's a good one. Besides, if we're too accurate, it'll arouse suspicions. This many talented people in one place always does. It's why we have to be nomads." Angela's smile was wistful. "People don't want the truth, not really." She stared into the distance for a few moments, a darkness behind her honey-gold eyes. She shook her head, then, and smiled at Meggie. "The first customers start trickling in around ten. You ready?"

Meggie nodded and smiled, trying to look confident.

"Alright, my darling. Give 'em hell."

Dustfinger bowed to the audience, his breath only slightly labored. He stood up straight and gazed out at the gathered masses. It hadn't been a full show, as it was only midday, mostly just some flame-twirling and fire-breathing. The sun burned high and hot, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on Dustfinger's bare, sun-kissed skin. The audience was mostly couples with young children, out for a nice Saturday afternoon, though a group of college-age boys stood by, looking less awed and more amused by his performance. Dustfinger was used to such reaction; when you're that age you think you've seen and done everything, and you do your damnedest to act as if nothing impresses you. He watched them walk off without leaving anything in the old iron collection plate now being carried through the crowd by Jesse, Angela's nephew. Oh, well. Maybe they'd give more generously for pretty little Claire. She was about their age.

As the crowd dispersed, Dustfinger dropped his tools into the canvas bag at his feet. Draping a towel around his shoulders, he headed around behind the tents, wondering if the heat made it silly to try and take a shower. As he walked he heard male laughter, and a voice say, "C'mon, Brett, see what she says!"

"You never know, she might tell you you'll get into law school."

"Or she'll tell you Lauren's gonna chop your balls off for that thing with Amber."

"Shut the fuck up, Alex!"

More laughter. Dustfinger got a bad feeling, and moved over to the chatter. The group of frat boys were now standing in front of Meggie's new tent. Dustfinger got closer, sliding up to the side, where a flap had come loose. He could see everything now, and the kid would never have to know he was watching over her.

_Which I'm not_, he told himself stubbornly. _I don't _care,_ not really. But drunken frat boys are no good for anyone. That's all it is._

_I _don't_ care._

Dustfinger's musings were interrupted when the boy, a big blonde with a way-too-white smile, walked into the tent, followed by one of his friends. The boy sat down and smiled at Meggie. The girl gave a reluctant smile back, then said in a brisk, businesslike tone, "What do you need to know?"

Dustfinger's mouth quirked. She knew already to keep them at arms length. _Good_.

"Whatever you want to tell me, baby." Brett smiled and wagged his eyebrows.

Meggie ignored it. Laying her hands flat on the table, palm up, she said, "We'll see."

Brett looked up at his buddy, seemingly for encouragement. The guy nodded and said quietly, "Go on, man." Brett turned back to Meggie, who was eyeing him with cool indifference. For a moment, Dustfinger was proud of her. _Stop that_, he told himself. The frat boy laid his hands in Meggie's. She closed her fingers over his, then closed her eyes.

She frowned, then gasped. Her grip tightened. Brett tried to pull away, but Meggie seemed inhumanly strong, at least for the moment. She grimaced, her head tilted as if listening to something. Finally, her eyes opened, and Dustfinger swore they were a bright, dead white

She blinked rapidly as if clearing her vision, and Dustfinger convinced himself he'd imagined it. She released Brett, who jumped up from the table. "What the hell, lady?" he demanded, sounding at once both angry and scared. "That hurt!"

Meggie looked up at him, her gaze cold. Whatever she had seen, it was obviously bad. "Don't drink at the party at Beta house next Saturday," she said, her voice hard. "Better yet, don't go at all."

"Why?" Brett's friend piped up. He, too was visibly shaken. "Will he, like... get hurt, or something?"

"_Or something_." Meggie held Brett's gaze, and Dustfinger watched the man cower under her innocent blue eyes. "You're the one that made the mistake, Brett; she'll show up with one of your friends, and that's going to piss you off. Rich boys like you aren't used to facing consequences. _Don't go_. It's better for everyone that way."

Brett spluttered for a moment, seemingly torn between fear and rage. After a moment, he chose rage. "Why you crazy little cunt!" He made a move towards Meggie, as if to grab her.

Dustfinger tore the tent wall aside, putting himself between the frat boy and the girl, who still stood glaring at the blonde as if she had nothing to fear. Dustfinger shoved the man backwards. He stumbled into his friend, but recovered quickly. He opened his mouth, but Dustfinger cut him off. "Your time's up, lad. And if I were you, I'd take the lady's advice and go."

Brett's eyes shifted furiously from Dustfinger to Meggie, then back again. Dustfinger could see the cogs turning in the man's head, probably trying to decide whether getting violent would be worth it. Finally, he sneered, saying, "What the fuck ever, you freaks. C'mon, Alex, I'm over this." Brett tore through the tent's entrance. His friend, Alex, looked at Meggie.

"Um... sorry... about that," he said.

"Don't let him go on Saturday," Meggie repeated.

"Is it... is it bad?"

Meggie just stared at him. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah. We won't go. I promise." He looked at Dustfinger, then back at Meggie. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then thought better of it and left.

Dustfinger turned to Meggie. "What was that about?"

Meggie shook her head, then quite suddenly, all the fight seemed to drain out of her. The girl's knees buckled, and she tipped forward. Dustfinger caught her round the waist, keeping her on her feet. "Whoa, love, you're alright." Meggie looked up at him, and Dustfinger froze. Her eyes were completely white. She stared unseeingly at him for what seemed like eternity, and Dustfinger could do nothing. He was trapped by her blank gaze. Finally, Meggie shook her head. Her eyes changed, the blue returning to them as if a mist was clearing. She pulled roughly out of his grasp.

For a moment, Dustfinger wasn't sure what to say. The girl had just read his future. Did he want to know what she saw?

She looked at him, and she looked frightened. "Don't tell me," he blurted out. "Whatever it is, I don't want to know." Not with that look in her eyes, he didn't. A look like a caged animal, a feral thing trapped in something she didn't understand. Whatever she saw had scared her.

Meggie just nodded. Without a word, she turned and left the tent. Dustfinger sat down in her pretty chair, draped in silks, and wrapped his arms around himself.

The Nevada heat wasn't enough to keep him from trembling.

Meggie ran all the way back to the trailer she shared with Dustfinger.

Oh, God, _Dustfinger_. Just thinking his name made her heart race, made her break out in a cold sweat.

She burst through the door, the screen clattering, and went straight for the sink. Splashing cold water on her face, Meggie took a deep, shaky breath and sank down to the floor.

She'd never been touched by a man she wasn't related to before. Dustfinger's arms around her had been so strange and unnerving. His skin had been warm, and he'd smelled of sweet musk and ash. She could still feel his skin against hers. But that wasn't what had frightened her.

When Dustfinger had wrapped his arms around Meggie, she'd fallen right into a vision. The colors were highly saturated, and it was more vivid and tactile than usual. In it, she was sitting at the table in the trailer. Dustfinger was next to her, his arm draped across the back of the bench. It was raining outside, and she could feel the cool dampness emanating from the window at her shoulder. She'd been crying, but somehow she knew it wasn't because of him. He'd slipped a hand beneath her chin, then leaned forward and kissed her.

Dustfinger had kissed her.

It was nothing like her vision about Zachariah. Dustfinger's hand was warm, his lips soft. He'd pressed into her, and when she opened her mouth to take a breath, his tongue had slipped inside. The feel of it was shocking, and dirty, and so _good_ that Meggie didn't know what to think. His tongue had slid over hers, velvety and heady, and his thumb had stroked her cheek in such a sweet gesture that it took Meggie a few moments to realize that she was kissing him back.

It was this revelation that had drawn her out of the vision and back to reality. She simply couldn't see herself willingly kissing someone, couldn't possibly imagine the events leading to such a thing. What on earth would cause her do this? And as for Dustfinger... he had so far shown her nothing but polite disinterest. What would possess him to kiss her?

If she was still at home, Meggie would talk to Tobias. She told him everything; he was the only one who knew about her visions, the only one she could go to when she needed advice, or just a friendly ear. Here, though she was relatively safe, she was also alone. And there was no one to talk to.

_Oh, no, wait! Of course there is!_ Meggie wanted to slap herself. Of course there was someone to talk to; there was an entire carnival _full_ of people just like her, and any one of them would probably understand! But who to go to?

Angela. She was kind, and smelled nice, and treated Meggie like she belonged. Meggie stood up, feeling calmer now that she had a plan. She would go to Angela and ask for help.

Even as she smiled, and felt better, she did her best to ignore the small voice in the back of her head whispering to her.

_You've never been wrong_, it said._ Not once. Not ever._


	6. Soft As A Siren

**A/N:** So, I just _now_ noticed that when I upload my chapters, removes the asterisks that I use as breaks between POV changes. God, I hope that hasn't made the story hard to follow! I've switched to using the little... squiggly line thing, I'm not sure what it's called. If you've been confused before, hopefully this will make more sense! I mean, with POV shifting so randomly, and with no warning (in the form of asterisks), I'd be frickin' confused. Anyway, the title for this is from the song "Lighthouse" by the Hush Sound.

Chapter 6: Soft As A Siren

Mortimer leafed through the book in front of him. Fenoglio's shop had been quite useful; there were records kept of every book borrowed or bought from the old man's back room, the place he kept all his secular trash. As it turns out, Meggie had borrowed quite a few books over time. When Mortimer had first seen the list of what his daughter had been exposed to, he'd been filled with rage.

Folchart, Meggie:

The Golden Compass; The Subtle Knife; The Amber Spyglass - by Phillip Pullman

Abarat; Nights of Magic, Days of War - by Clive Barker

Tithe - by Holly Black

The Eyes of the Dragon - by Stephen King

Howl's Moving Castle - by Diana Wynne-Jones

Titus Groan; Gormenghast; Titus Alone - by Mervyn Peake

The Sword in the Stone - by T. H. White

A Wrinkle in Time; A Wind in the Door; A Swiftly Tilting Planet; Many Waters - by Madeleine L'Engle

Basilisk - by N. M. Browne

The Neverending Story - by Michael Ende

Other Voices, Other Rooms - by Truman Capote

Tenderness - by Robert Cormier

The Princess Bride - by William Goldman

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; Through the Looking Glass - by Lewis Carroll

Phantom - by Susan Kay

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle - by Avi

There were more still, dozens of books, filth that his daughter had been exposed to. Mo was looking through one now, a novel called Faerie Wars, by Herbie Brennan, in which the main character's own mother has an affair with her husband's female secretary! Mo was horrified to discover these things that had been influencing Meggie, twisting her mind for who knows _how _long.

"This stuff... it's unbelievable!" Zachariah muttered somewhere on Mo's left. "It's all saturated with sin, lust and violence and greed dripping from the pages. How could we not know?"

"We knew," Mo said, turning to his friend. "I had no idea the extent of it, but I knew he was selling the occasional secular book. Honestly, I wasn't that worried. At the time, I assumed the teachings of the church would be enough to counter anything people might read. I see now I was wrong. I underestimated the pull of the secular world, underestimated how seductive sin could be." He sighed, casting a glance around the room at the piles of book. "Have you found anything useful?"

"Maybe," Zachariah said. "There's a book here about a boy who joins a circus. I mean, he becomes a vampire and joins a circus full of monsters - the book is called Cirque du Freak - but I just remembered something." He placed the book on the table, sitting down next to Mo. "There was a carnival up the highway a few days ago. Not the kind with rides and games, but a traveling gypsy show. Like, psychics and contortionists and side-show freaks. And this _was _one of the books on Meggie's list."

"You think Meggie ran away and joined the circus?" Mo gave Zachariah a skeptical look.

"Well, when you say it like that..." Zach sighed. "Mo, the whole thing packed up and left just hours after Meggie ran off, but the flier I saw for it said it would be in town for a week. Why did they leave with three days left?"

Mo contemplated this. After a moment, he said, "Do you remember the name of this carnival?"

Zach shook his head. "I could probably find out, though. I can get someone to pull up the county records; you have to have permits to set up shop like that."

"Alright." Mo stood. "I think I'm going to gather up these books, the ones on Meggie's reading list, and start asking around. I'll start with Tobias; the two of them were close."

Angela remained silent through Meggie's entire tale. When she'd finished, the woman stared into the distance for some time. Meggie waited, her hands nervously twisting the hem of her shawl.

Finally, Angela turned back to Meggie. "First of all, honey, I'm proud of the way you handled yourself with those frat boys." Angela smiled. "It takes guts to stand your ground when that type of people are all up in your face." Meggie smiled back at her. Angela's praise made Meggie glow all warm and fuzzy. Angela made every place feel like home.

"Now, on to your vision," Angela continued, sobering. "Can you tell how far in the future it is?"

Meggie shook her head. "Not an exact date, but it doesn't feel _too _far. A year, maybe less."

"Hmmm." Angela pursed her lips. "Honestly, sweetie, I'm a little torn."

Meggie cocked her head. "How so?"

"Well... as long as he's been here, I've never known Dustfinger to be anything but an honest, straightforward gentleman. He's never made a move on any of the ladies here, nor any of the women that come for the shows. He's kind, if not friendly, and has never treated anyone with anything but the utmost respect. From everything I've seen, Dustfinger is a good man, through and through. And would probably make a good husband someday, if he was so inclined.

"However," she continued, her voice lowering slightly, "this vision seems to have unnerved you a great deal. And though I don't know specific details about your past, I do have a better-than-fuzzy idea of what it was like."

"But how - ?" Meggie began.

Angela shook her head and smiled. "Darling, we've more than one mind-reader among us. And though they try to keep out of other's thoughts, teenagers in turmoil tend to think very loudly." Meggie blushed, and Angela continued, "Your past makes you a bit... mmm, _skittish_ around men. Tell me, in your vision, were you afraid?"

Meggie blushed harder, a bright crimson, and she lowered her eyes. "Not exactly," she said quietly.

"Mm-hm." Angela's voice was too knowing, and suddenly Meggie wished she could just disappear. She was ashamed of her own lack of knowledge and experience. "Alright, here's my advice to you - if the idea of finding yourself in that sort of situation frightens you that much, then decide right now not to let it happen. Just be aware of how you act with Dustfinger, and you can keep from getting too close if you wish it. However," Angela said firmly, tugging Meggie's chin up to meet her gaze, "if you decide not to push Dustfinger away, and you give yourself time to adjust to relating with men, quite soon you may find yourself in a position where the events of your vision are actually quite welcome." Angela released Meggie and stood. "Alright, that's all I've got. Run along now."

Meggie thanked her and left, heading back to the trailer. She had a lot to think about.

Tobias leaned on his rake and stared out into the distance. He was supposed to be tending the garden, but his thoughts were on his sister, Meggie. She'd been missing for days, though their father had been trying to act as though nothing was wrong. Tobias couldn't imagine what had happened. Meggie didn't do anything without telling him about it first. She was too well protected to have been kidnapped; the entire town was under his father's thumb. So she must have run away. Tobias had heard that the Winchester brothers, Dean and little Sam, had been run out of town around the same time Meggie went missing. Had she gone with them? One or two people seemed to think so, but Tobias thought differently. Meggie wasn't the type to get all love struck and follow a sinner out of town. So she ran away. but why? And where?

"Tobias!" It was his father's voice, strong and commanding. Tobias jumped, then turned. Mo and the sheriff were striding across the huge yard, toward the garden fence.

"Yes, Father?" Tobias replied, trying to keep his voice from shaking. The last time his father had actively sought him out, it was because he'd been sending notes to Meggie in church. Tobias still had the marks on his back from that little transgression.

"I want to talk you about Meggie," Mo said, leaning on the wooden fence.

"What about her?" Tobias trembled, already feeling the sting of his father's belt.

"Well, as I'm sure you know, Meggie has gone missing."

"Yes, Father, I've realized."

"Do you know where she's gone?"

Good Lord, of course. Tobias knew why they asked him; he and Meggie were close, the best of friends. But he truly didn't know. The question was, would his father believe him? "No, Father, I don't," he said, trying to sound innocent. "I've been thinking about it, trying to remember if she'd done or said something before she left, something that might give a clue as to why, but I can't think of anything."

"'Before she left'?" his father repeated softly. "Tell me, Tobias, how do you know she ran away?"

Tobias turned cold with fear. "I..." he stammered, mouth dry, "I just... Well, there's no way some stranger would have taken her, because there's no strangers around. And she wouldn't have left with the Winchester boys; I don't think she even knew them. So she has to have to run. I'm just... not sure why."

His father was silent for several long moments. Finally, he spoke. "May I tell you something, son?"

"Yes, of course, Father."

"Meggie _did_ run away. And I'm not sure exactly why, either."

Tobias let out a long sigh. "Well, when did she leave? What happened right before she did?"

"She came to the barn the other day," Mo said. "She walked up to me, she gave me a big hug, then she looked up at me... and turned and ran. At the time I didn't think to go after her. It wasn't until supper that evening that I realized she was gone."

Tobias knew instantly what had happened. Meggie had had a vision. And whatever she'd seen was bad enough that she'd ran, and hadn't stopped.

And now, Tobias was worried. What could possibly have scared her that badly?


	7. Confusion is Nothing New

**A/N:** _Hey, guys, I am SOOOOO sorry about how long this took. A bunch of irl stuff kept delaying me. There was a move and a computer crash, and now a NEW computer, and ugh. Anyway, I just want you guys to know that this fic is NOT DEAD. I swear, I'm still writing it, my muse is still alive and well. __J__ Anyway, thanks to everyone who has read so far, and to anyone who reads now. Loves, Jane_

_Also, the title of this song comes from Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time", though I pretty much only listen to the Eva Cassidy version._

Chapter 7: Confusion is Nothing New

Meggie spent upwards of three weeks mulling over the things Angela had said to her. In that time, she learned more about the others in the carnival. Claire told her that she'd left home after getting in a car accident, breaking her neck, and waking up in the morgue. She'd stood up, walked out, and been shot by police thinking she was a monster. She'd found the carnival the next day, and never looked back.

Matt had been a worker at his local DMV when he discovered he could read minds. The cacophony of voices drove him to a mental hospital, then to liquor, then to drugs, and finally to a seedy motel with a gun in his mouth. He'd seen a flier for the carnival on the bedside table, and decided to give it a chance. He said if that flier hadn't been there, then Matt would be dead.

Gabriel wasn't all that forthcoming about his past, but Peter told Meggie later that he'd been raised by an abusive, mentally unstable mother. When Gabriel had discovered his ability - to influence the actions of others - he'd told his mother to take an entire bottle of Vicodin, then chase it with a bottle of vodka. He hadn't hurt another person since, but Peter said it was only because of the carnival. If Gabriel had never found Joseph and Angela, he'd probably have ended up as crazy as his mother.

Peter himself said that he discovered his powers quite late in life, while he was in college. He'd gotten in a fight with his boyfriend over something trivial, and during the fight his power flared, and the boy was thrown through three walls by the force of it. It broke his back in five places. Peter discovered that he could move things with his mind, and when the boy later died in the hospital, he left college to find a place to learn to control his abilities, finding the carnival not far from his hometown.

D.L. and Nikki had shown up with their young son one rainy night several years before. Nikki had preternatural strength, and didn't know it until she found herself the victim of an overly-aggressive drunk one night at a friend's party. He'd groped her, and wouldn't take "no" for an answer, so she'd hit him - and he was dead before he hit the ground. She been arrested right away, and their son put in foster care. When D.L. came home from his business trip to find his wife in jail and his son in another family's home, he'd used his ability to walk through solid material to get his wife and son out. They were fugitives now, and had to careful about how far they strayed from the carnival.

Meggie found out that Angel had healing abilities, and that she was Joseph's wife. About Joseph, however, no one would tell her what powers he had. Only that he was strong, and he'd fought hard to get to a place of control. She was told he rarely used his powers, and that when he did, she would know it.

She still hadn't come to a decision about Dustfinger. Every fiber in her screamed that being with a man in that way was wrong, that it was a sin and the mere contemplation of it could send her to Hell. But as the weeks went by, that voice grew softer, and another, more rational one piped up, one that sounded suspiciously like Tobias.

_Father was wrong_, it said. _You can't believe anything he told you. Make this decision on how you feel, not what you think God wants._

The problem was, Meggie didn't really know how to feel.

Meggie had never been attracted to a boy before. She's never flirted or batted her eyes, smiling prettily. She'd never seen the appeal. But Dustfinger…

There was no doubt in her mind that he affected her. When he stood at her shoulder to see what she was cooking, a shiver would slip down her spine. When he smiled, she smiled back. And when his hand was empty, sitting on the table as he read a book, she found herself wanting to slip her hand into his. Did that mean she was attracted to him? Her own inexperienced angered and shamed her, and she wished fervently, not for the first time, that she'd been raised differently.

But then, she may never have met Dustfinger, and the others at the carnival. And Meggie was happy there, happy for the first time in her life.

Meggie was contemplating these very things as she stood at the sink, staring at the small frosted window. She was supposed to be washing the vegetables for dinner, but her hands had stilled as her mind wandered. Suddenly the door crashed open and Dustfinger stumbled in, swearing violently. Meggie flinched a bit at the language, though she was getting used to Dustfinger's somewhat coarse tongue. Dustfinger slammed his hands onto the table. He was breathing hard and there were streaks of mud on his bare back.

"Dustfinger?" Meggie ventured. "What happened?" When he turned, Meggie gasped. His face was bloody and bruised and dirty.

Dustfinger sighed, leaning against the table. "Some local assholes thought it would be funny to rough up the circus freaks. I had to pull some fucker off Matt." He rubbed his hands together then hissed. There were scrapes all across his palms.

Meggie pulled the first-aid kit out from under the sink and pulled the step stool up to the sink. "Sit," she ordered, wetting down a cloth.

"Don't bother, I'm fine - "

"Sit. Down." Meggie pointed firmly at the stool.

Dustfinger quieted instantly, looking both surprised and impressed. "Alright, alright." He sat down and tilted his face up obediently.

Meggie took him by the chin and carefully cleaned off the blood and dirt. It wasn't as bad as it looked; head wounds always made things look worse. She cleaned off his hands next, his fingers warm and rough in hers. That done, she tossed the rag in the sink and pulled out a bottle of peroxide and a cotton ball.

"You don't… really have to do that, do you?" Dustfinger asked, eyeing the brown bottle with distrust.

Meggie rolled her eyes. "Don't be such a baby," she replied. Gently, she dabbed the soaking cotton on the worse of the cuts.

Dustfinger hissed in pain, and his hands clutched at her hips on reflex.

Meggie froze. Dustfinger's hands right at the waistband of her skirt, the tips of his fingers brushing the skin between her skirt and her shirt. The touch was strange and intimate, and sent warm waves of something through her. And she realized, as uncomfortable as it might be, this would be the perfect opportunity to settle those pesky questions about the future.

Meggie forced herself to relax, to forget the hands on her skin and to focus on the task. She cleaned to first cut, then moved onto the next. Another sound of pain, and a tightening of Dustfinger's hands. Meggie's hands started to shake. She managed to clean each wound without moving away or flinching. In fact, she began to enjoy the touch, to lean into it slightly. The moment she was finished with his face, he stood.

"But, your hands…" she began weakly. When Dustfinger stood he'd held onto her hips, and the two were now pressed up against each other.

"They're fine," he said quietly. Her pulled her closer, and Meggie nearly stumbled. She put up her hands to steady herself and found her palms against hot, smooth skin.

Dustfinger radiated heat, more than a normal person, and she wondered if it had to do with his abilities. Dustfinger raised his hands and brushed the backs of his finger across her cheek. Meggie looked up at him and saw a dark, hungry look in his eyes. She bit her lip, and saw his eyes dart to her mouth. He licked his own lips and Meggie gasped softly.

It seemed to break whatever spell had befallen them. Dustfinger's eyes cleared and he roughly pushed her aside, barging out the door before she could speak.

Meggie stared after him, wondering if maybe he was just as confused as she was.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Dustfinger stormed through the camp, cursing himself and his own foolishness. What the hell was wrong with him? Sure, he wasn't blind. He could see how beautiful the girl was, especially after months of good food had put some meat on her bones. She was sweet and lovely, with creamy skin and golden hair, and a timid smile that was just starting to favor him with its presence.

But she was just a child. Fifteen, sixteen at the most. And there he was lusting after her as if he were just a boy himself. He was thirty-one years old, for God's sake! And forgetting for a moment the legal implications of the whole thing, the girl was obviously traumatized by whatever had happened to her before she'd come to the carnival.

But it had been years since he'd been with a woman, since he'd held soft flesh and lovely scent in his arms. And she was so sweet. Sweet like warm spring and honeysuckle. He laughed bitterly to himself. This girl was turning him into a poet. And a bloody awful one, at that.

Dustfinger looked up, seeing that his feet had brought him back to Matt's tent. He pulled the curtain aside. The first room was where Matt did his readings. A curtain in the back was pulled aside to reveal a small cot. Matt's abilities tired him quickly, and he had to take short naps during the day to combat the fatigue. Matt was sitting on the cot now, his arm cupped gently in Angela's hands.

Angela was murmuring soothing words to him as he winced. A cool light was emanating softly from under Angela's palms. She was healing him.

"Hey, Dusty," Matt said through gritted teeth.

Dustfinger moved forward, into the farther room. "How are you?" he asked.

Matt shrugged. "Still alive. Thanks for jumping in, there, buddy."

Dustfinger waved a hand. "It's fine," he said. "Not a problem. How badly did they hurt you?"

"They… busted up my arm pretty bad," Matt said, the pain evident in his voice. "But Angela's taking care of it."

"Angela's doing what she can," was the woman's clipped reply. "But I'm forbidding you to work for at least a week. You _know_ I prefer to let injuries this severe heal on their own."

Matt sighed. It was obvious this was an old argument. "You guys need my help breaking and setting camp. We can't afford to lose a pair of hands."

Angela released Matt's arm. He twisted it around gingerly. "It's healed, but barely," she said, mouth pursed. "Take it easy." She turned to leave. Seeing the marks on Dustfinger's face, she laid a hand on his cheek. Coolness poured through him like liquid, soothing the heated burn of pain. She pulled back.

"I noticed you managed to control yourself," she said to him. "No more fire whipping up around you when you're angry."

Dustfinger scowled. "_One time_," he insisted. "_One time_ I lose control and no one ever lets me forget it."

Angela's eyebrows went up. "You think we should? You and Gabriel are the two most dangerous people in this camp. As much as we love you, we'll always be watching you." And on that very depressing note, she left.

"So… you got a thing for the palm-reader, huh?"

Sometimes, Dustfinger hated Matt Parkman.

"It's not polite to root around in your friend's head," Dustfinger grumbled, sitting down next to Matt on the cot.

Matt laughed even as he cradled his newly-healed arm. "I don't have to; Dusty, I could hear you coming a mile away. You were screaming in your head about blonde hair and statutory rape, and I may be dumb, but anyone could have put it together."

Dustfinger sighed, running a hand over his face. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Well…" Mat began slowly. "You could talk to Joseph about finding another place for her to stay."

"You sound as if there's a 'but' coming."

"_But… _I think you may be freaking out over nothing."

Dustfinger shot him a disdainful look. "Do tell."

Matt sighed. "Look, I actually know what's happened to her in the past. She broadcasts louder than anyone else here. I want you to know that. Which means that whatever advice I give you is informed with that knowledge."

Dustfinger nodded.

"I'm not going to tell you her life story, because that's not my place. Let's just say it was bad, and leave it at that. However, she's beginning to heal, to get past her traumas. And honestly? I think you two could be good for each other."

Dustfinger stared at him. "Are you out of your mind?" he asked. "She's a child!"

The look Matt gave him was half-knowing, half-exasperated. "She's seen more and been through more than most adults ever manage. Believe me, she's plenty mature. Look, she needs someone she can count on; she needs to see that there is such a thing as a man who doesn't hurt you."

Dustfinger's blood boiled at those words, at the awful, unnamed things that had been done to Meggie.

"And look at you, right now. All I have to do is _allude_ to the idea of abuse and you're ready to start a forest fire."

Dustfinger looked down at his hands clenched in his lap. They were glowing a dull red. He took a deep breath and relaxed, letting the light and heat dim from them.

"Look, Dusty, I'm not saying you should go back to your trailer and seduce her. I'm saying that you should stay open to the idea. But let _her_ come to _you_. Let her choose to be with you and you could be happy. You both could."

Dustfinger laid his head in his hands. He could never make someone happy.

Because _he_ didn't deserve to be happy.


End file.
